Tracy nearly dropped her “World’s Best Mom” mug when she saw me. The mug Brandon and Sierra had bought her at Dollar Tree one Mother’s Day, which she treated like it was fine china.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she chirped, voice too bright. “I made coffee!”
She hadn’t. She’d pushed a K-Cup into the Keurig I’d bought with my Starbucks employee discount. But sure, Brenda.
Brandon shuffled in, hair sticking up, smelling like sleep and stale Doritos. Sierra came down full glam, lashes, hair, the whole “I woke up like this” lie.
We sat at the table.
I’d made breakfast—eggs and toast—because some habits die hard.
Tracy tapped her phone like she was checking important emails, but I could see the screen angled enough to know she was googling “can you evict someone who owns the house.”
Brandon scroll-doom-scrolled TikTok, shoveling cereal into his mouth.
Sierra arranged her avocado toast just so, snapped a picture, then pushed it around with her fork.
“Hey, Tracy,” I said casually, cutting into my eggs. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday. About rent.”
She perked up like a meerkat spotting a predator.